


Learning to Die

by charlolwut



Category: Misfits, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Gen, Humour, Oneshot, Superpowers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-21 23:54:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2486927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlolwut/pseuds/charlolwut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The storm took them unexpectedly. One moment they were chasing a suspect, feet pounding, hearts racing, and then the next moment they were thrown up in the air like ragdolls, great shards of ice falling around them.</p><p>Next thing John knows, the entire city seems to have superpowers and Sherlock Holmes won't die.</p><p>Inspired by the TV show 'Misfits'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Learning to Die

The storm took them unexpectedly. One moment they were chasing a suspect, feet pounding, hearts racing, and then the next moment they were thrown up in the air like ragdolls, great shards of ice falling around them. John felt something hot and quick rush through his body, leaving his fingers tingling and his chest tight. His first, fleeting thought was of Sherlock, who undoubtably must be feeling just as uncomfortable and strange. It was quickly overtaken by the realisation that he had just been struck by lightning and that surely he would die from this. Panic bubbled up in his throat, his mouth opened like a chasm as time slowed down around them, the storm holding their bodies in the air for much longer than it ought to. Then just as suddenly as it had started, it ended. John dropped bonelessly onto the ground, his skull cracking painfully against the pavement. He curled up in on himself instinctively, clutching his head and blinked back the spots that wavered in his vision.

 

“Sherlock?” said John, trying his best not to sound like he felt, “Sherlock, are you okay?”

 

“Fine,” came the muffled reply to his left.

 

John sat up, his head pounding delicately and his feet twitching with pins and needles. Something heavy and prickly, some symptom that he had never felt or heard of, rushed from his numb feet to his aching head, so much so that John suddenly felt nauseous. It went as quickly as it came and it was all he could do to not chuck up all over his friend. Nerves, probably, he told himself. Nerves and electricity.

 

“We've just been struck by lightning,” said John absently. _Lightning. Oh._ “Christ. Lightning!”

 

He turned to look at Sherlock, who, apart from nursing a small cut on his arm, looked no more ruffled that he had before the storm.  _Git._ John scowled and shuffled closer to reach over and inspect Sherlock's cut. It didn't look too deep, but...

 

“John, I'm fine,” snapped Sherlock. He went to stand up. “We're still on a chase! Evans has probably gotten away by now, if he wasn't caught in that freak storm, but he can't have gone too far.”

 

John frowned and grabbed Sherlock's bare wrist. “Just let me-”

 

Sherlock collapsed.

 

*

 

“I don't know, I don't understand, he was fine, he was fine, and then he just...” John trailed off.

 

Lestrade continued to look at him, his features drawn and his eyes heavy with grief. “It wasn't your fault, John,” he said, “Nobody predicted that freak storm tonight, and, well...it wasn't your fault. What happened to Sherlock was an accident.”

 

John continued to stare at the floor, feeling empty. “It wasn't heart failure. It wasn't anything to do with the lightning. He just...I touched him, Greg. The moment I grabbed his wrist he was gone.”

 

“These things happen. I don't know what caused his death, but the morgue will send me a report, and I can go over it with you if that would help, maybe...” Lestrade paused and cleared his throat. His voice was hoarse. “John, it's not your fault.”

 

Lestrade lay his hand upon the orange shock blanket covering John's shoulders, and it was all John could do to not shudder.

 

*

 

Just outside 221B, crumpled at the bottom of the step, was a dead pigeon. Its wings were bent and its legs mangled. John looked at it for a long time, something tight rising in his chest. His fingers tingled. He reached out slowly for it, before catching himself and shoving his hands back into his pocket.

 

The walk up their flat was a long one.

 

*

 

_Sherlock Holmes._

_1982 – 2014_

 

John stared at the black gravestone. Everyone else had left, leaving just him standing there. He felt like a twat.

 

“Um,” he began, unsure of where to start. He needed to speak, to apologise for...something. Sherlock deserved at least that. It had been such a quick, pointless death.

 

“Excuse me, sir,” squeaked a voice behind him.

 

John turned around and was met with a young girl, maybe about nine. He raised his eyesbrows.

 

“Shouldn't you be in school?” he asked.

 

The girl fidgeted and shook her head. “That man wants to be let out, I think.”

 

“Pardon?”

 

“The man underground,” she said, pointing at Sherlock's grave. “He's muttering to himself about being bored. I think you should dig him out.”

 

John's blood ran cold. “He's dead.”

 

“I don't think so,” said the girl. She tugged at her cuffs and stared resolutely up at John. “Dead people don't talk. I can hear him.”

 

John said nothing. He couldn't.

 

“Please, sir, you have to dig him out. It's not very kind to bury someone who doesn't want to be buried. My brother thought he did once, so we buried him in the sand, but he didn't like it one bit, so we dug him back up again,” said the girl. She peered at the gravestone. “Sherlock Holmes doesn't like it down there.” She suddenly seemed to notice where she was. “I've got to go, but dig him up, or I'll...I'll call the police on you!”

 

As John watched the child run to the entrance of the graveyard, his fingers tingled. Deja-vu swept over him in a rush, although he was certain that he had never been in this graveyard before. Perhaps he never had to again. Perhaps he could make this one final farewell to his best friend and leave London, leave the memories, explore some new part of the world and make a new life for himself somewhere. Deep down, he knew that wouldn't happen. A compulsion had risen up inside him, and without a second thought he was on the ground scraping at the dirt with his hands. Six feet under. That's where he'd be. That's where Sherlock Holmes would be, waiting on John Watson to save him as he had saved John so many times.

 

“I'm crazy, I'm absolutely bonkers, but if you're down there, Sherlock, I'm coming,” muttered John. His suit was stained brown and green and his fingernails were caked with mud, but the insane need for closure, which the little girl had so neatly ruined, kept him going. A suspicion had niggled in the back of his head since the incident, since the _storm_ , and it wasn't just Sherlock's death, it was something else, something else that he's done or felt that wasn't quite right.

 

Three feet down, John stopped. As fast as he was digging, the dirt was sliding back into the hole he had made, like sand. Darkness had fallen over the cemetery and a chill wind was in the air. He stood up, wiping his hands on his trousers, to look around for a tool. Sure enough, leaning against the building's wall like it was waiting for him, was a shovel. Who it belonged to didn't matter; John hurried over, grabbed it and began digging desperately.

 

Five feet down, John stopped again. He dropped the shovel and crouched down, listening keenly. An extremely faint noise was coming from the ground, like somebody was banging something.

 

Six feet down, the shovel encountered solid wood. After clearing the remaining dirt from the top of the coffin, John took a deep breath and slowly pulled the lid open.

 

Sherlock Holmes blinked up at him.

 

“Hello, John,” said Sherlock, beaming.

 

*

 

“You were dead, the lightning hit you, and,” stammered John, feeling slightly faint, “You, you died. You definitely died that night.”

 

“Yes,” replied Sherlock, as easily as if he were reciting a shopping list, “The question you're supposed to be asking is how am I reborn?” He stretched his arms out wide, grinning like a madman. “Immortality, John! It's the only explanation I could think of while I was stuck down there. I'm immortal, I must be.”

 

John blinks, suddenly feeling very weak. “That's impossible, Sherlock.”

“No, John, no, it's highly improbable, yes, but impossible? No! Nothing is impossible, John. You know my methodology. Apply it to this scenario, and the only possible explanation is that there was some supernatural force that gave me life again,” said Sherlock, as happy as a clown, “I've theorised that something in that storm gave us a power. Immortality and fatal touch. Imagine what we could do, John!”

 

“I'm sorry, what?” said John faintly, “I'm completely lost. You think you got a power from that freak storm...”

 

Sherlock huffed. “Don't sound so accusing, you acquired one too. It's the only possible explanation for my death. I've examined myself and my memories, and there was absolutely no reason for me to die. The one thing that triggered my death was your touch, John. Therefore, fatal touch.” He rubbed his hands together. “Goodness knows how many others out there have powers. The criminal underground will be so much more interesting, so many more-”

 

“Stop!” snapped John. His fingers tingled and he swayed where he stood. He couldn't take much more of this jargon. “Have you completely lost your mind?!”

 

“No, John, this is-”

 

“Ridiculous. This is absolutely bonkers. You've lost it, Sherlock. I'm sorry for burying you alive, but Jesus, this is ridiculous,” said John, anger coiling up in his body like a snake. “You can't make me believe that you're immortal and that I have some- a power that makes me kill people with a touch. This is comic book stuff. It's not real, its-”

 

John cut off as Sherlock grabbed his sleeve and pulled them together. Sherlock smirked, quickly, coyly, and dramatically placed his forefinger upon John's bare arm. He instantly collapsed, dragging John to the floor with him.

 

“Sherlock, stop with the theatrics, this is stupid,” snarled John, prying Sherlock's cold hands off him. The detective slumped bonelessly, uncomfortably against his grave. He didn't move.

 

“Sherlock, stop,” repeated John. His voice cracked. “Sherlock, please, I don't want to see this right now. Stop it.”

 

Sherlock didn't respond. John bent down and checked his pulse, breathing and heart. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

 

“Fuck,” whispered John frantically, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, I just lost you, Holmes, don't make me lose you again, don't you dare, wake up,” He shook his friend's corpse. “Wake up, damnit!”

 

*

 

Hours later, Sherlock sat up, stretched and winced at the bright light of the dawn.

 

John let out a long breath. “Oh, thank god.”

 

“Ah, John, good morning!” exclaimed Sherlock, beaming. John hated him.

 

“Are you going to be this merry every time you wake up from death?” growled John, scowling from his perch on the edge of the six foot hole.

 

Sherlock merely smiled. He stood up, made a show of pulling his shirt down over his hand and extended it to John. “Breakfast?”

 

John hated him so much.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I got into Misfits very recently and had a sudden compulsion to write this. 
> 
> But I'd probably best head back to my dissertation, so it was fun while it lasted for the day, I guess.
> 
> Thanks for reading :)


End file.
